The Medusa Amulet Page 20

  He was learning more about her every minute. “And these cards would be from the Laurenziana, I presume?”

  She smiled, and her lips glistened. Was it gloss, he wondered, or simply the wine?

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said, and before he could even ask what he wouldn’t believe, she leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table and said in a low voice, “I have them all-some of them the originals-from 1938 to 1945.”

  The elderly couple just across the aisle from them called for their check. The old man winked at David, conspiratorially.

  “Could this have something to do with why Dr. Valetta has banned you from the library?” David asked.

  “All I wanted was to see who had asked for certain books.”

  “And what did you expect to find? Adolph Hitler’s personal request to see a book about raising the dead?”

  “You are mocking,” she said, slightly indignant, “but you are not so far off. What do you know about the Nazis and the occult?”

  “Only what I see on the History Channel, late at night.” He hadn’t meant to upset her.

  “I do not know what you mean by saying that. What is the History Channel?”

  “Nothing,” he said, dismissing it. “I just meant that it’s considered kind of… speculative.”

  “It is not,” she said, a spark kindling in her eyes. “People would like to think so,” she said, waving one hand with the wineglass still in it, “but that does not mean it is untrue. Between the First and the Second World Wars, Germany and Austria-both of them-were filled with mystic lodges and secret fraternities. The Ariosophists, the Thule Society, the Vril Society. Every city, every town, from Hamburg to Vienna, had them. Hitler was even a member of some. And when he started to rise in politics, he made sure that he kept spies in every group to report back to him.”

  The waiter brought their plates, and if David hoped this might change the direction of the conversation, he was wrong. Olivia dug in without missing a beat.

  “Heinrich Himmler, the Reichsfuhrer, he was also a great believer. He paraded his troops through the streets of Berlin dressed as Teutonic knights and the people of Germany loved it! The Nazis believed in a super race, an Aryan race, a race that had been pushed aside, or buried in the earth, or corrupted by mixing with impure blood. There were many theories, but they all agreed that this race was going to rise again. It was going to purify itself, and it was going to create a new Reich, which was supposed to last for a thousand years.”

  David was listening carefully, but given his search for La Medusa , he felt his stores of credulity were already sorely depleted. And much as he respected Olivia’s scholarship, all of this was still sounding a little too close to those preposterous theories about Hitler possessing the Spear of Destiny, or conjuring up some Satanic power to wield control over the masses. David didn’t need any supernatural explanations for evil; as someone who had studied history all his life, he knew it sprouted up as easily as weeds, anywhere. All it ever needed was a little irrigating.

  “But what’s this got to do with the library cards?” David asked, pouring the last drops of the wine into Olivia’s glass, who thanked him, then signaled the waiter to bring them each another glass.

  Gulping the wine, but eager to continue her story, Olivia said, “There was one man that Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, all relied on when it came to the occult. He was a famous professor in Heidelberg, a man who had written books on pagan worship and sun signs and what they used to call the ‘root races.’ His books were bestsellers, and his lectures were always packed.”

  “Would I have heard of him?”

  “Probably not. His name was Dieter Mainz. And on every one of those borrower’s cards,” she said, rapping a knuckle on the table with each succeeding word, “I found his signature.”

  At last, David could begin to see the connection she was making.

  “He had requested every one of those books, including the Cellini manuscripts. In certain circles,” she elaborated, “Cellini was as famous for his magic as for his art. Just think of the passages from his autobiography, where he describes going to the Colosseum at night, with a sorcerer named Strozzi, and conjuring spirits?”

  David remembered it well, but in the published version, the incident had ended rather anticlimactically. After a host of demons had been summoned, Cellini asked for news of a woman he had once loved, and was told he would see her soon. And that was about it. It ended as abruptly as if it had been cut with a sword.

  “And think of the journey as he describes it in the book you have shown me, The Key to Life Eternal.”

  There, he continued the story-in an unexpurgated, and seemingly fantastical, fashion. When Olivia had first read it in the alcove at the Laurenziana, David had watched in amusement as her eyes grew progressively wider.

  The waiter returned with their wine. A small man, thin and pallid, had unobtrusively taken the seat at the opposite table and was bent over a book and a bowl of vichyssoise.

  “The Nazis knew that there were many drafts, many versions, of Cellini’s autobiography,” Olivia said, “and they thought the full story might be told in one of them. What they did not know about was the Key.”

  No one had, according to Mrs. Van Owen. If she was to be believed, hers was the only copy of the book in existence, and judging from the smoky smell that still clung to it, even hers had been barely rescued from a fire.

  “But they thought he might have concealed the secrets of his occult knowledge in his art. After all, no one at that time could have conceived of something so grand and so exquisitely made as the Perseus . Since he had achieved miracles in his art, the Germans thought he might have uncovered other great secrets, too.”

  “Such as immortality?”

  “Exactly,” Olivia said. “Just as he proclaims in the Key.”

  “Immortality,” David said again, letting the word roll around his tongue. He had shared so much with Olivia. But he had yet to tell her the real reason he was so desperate to find the mirror. Was this the time?

  “If there was one thing Hitler coveted,” she continued, “that was it. He didn’t just want the Reich to last a thousand years, he wanted to be there-for a thousand years and more-to rule it.”

  “It must have been a great disappointment to him when the Red Army took Berlin and he had to blow out his brains in the bunker.”

  Olivia sat back, with an unpersuaded expression on her face. “The body, you know, was never found.”

  “Sure it was,” David said, “along with Eva Braun’s. Burned in a ditch.” That much he knew.

  “ Remains,” Olivia said. “Only remains were found. By the Russians. And they claimed they were the Fuhrer’s. But no one else ever had the chance to test them; no one else even had the chance to see them. The Russians said they were incinerated outside a little town called Sheck and the ashes were thrown in the Biederitz River.” She drank some more of the Bordeaux. “And we know how trustworthy the Russians are.”

  The waiter appeared and asked if he could clear the table. David, trying to digest all that he had just heard, not to mention what he’d had to eat and drink, leaned back as the waiter picked up their plates. The man sitting across the aisle was smiling at him through thin lips and gray teeth and said, with what sounded like a Swiss accent, “Forgive me for intruding, but are you honeymooners?”

  Olivia smiled, and David said, “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh,” the man said, embarrassed at his faux pas. “Please pardon my mistake.”

  “No problem,” David replied, secretly pleased that they made that kind of impression.

  “I had taken the liberty,” the man said, “of ordering a round of a special schnapps, made in my hometown, and traditionally used to toast a bride and groom.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Olivia said, beaming at David.

  “So perhaps you’ll allow me to wish you well, all the same?”

  He gestured at the three small glasses, which were li
ned up on his table. Extending two of them, he said, “It is made from the wild cherries that grow in our valley, and we’re quite proud of it. I think you’ll see why.”

  Although another drink was the last thing David needed, it would be too rude to turn it down. Olivia thanked him, too, and after a few minutes of conversation-the man introduced himself as Gunther, a salesman of medical supplies from Geneva-they shook his hand and excused themselves.

  David, his valise slung under one arm, was halfway down the aisle when he realized just how much he’d had to drink, and how exhausted he really was. Olivia seemed to be feeling the same way. They were nearly staggering by the time they got back to their compartment, and he fumbled at the lock.

  Any dreams David had had of their first night together would just have to wait. Olivia flopped onto the lower bunk without so much as pulling the blanket back, and David tossed the valise onto the upper berth. Stumbling into the tiny bathroom, he looked at his face in the mirror. His expression was weary, almost blank, and the taste of the cherry schnapps was still strong on his tongue.

  Turning out the light and closing the flimsy door, he laid Olivia’s coat over her. Then he clambered into the upper berth, which, in his present state, felt like the best and softest bed he had ever been in. All he wanted to do was sleep, and the gentle, constant rumble of the train was like a lullaby. One arm rested on the valise, the other dangled off the side of the bunk.

  But his thoughts were restless, and he entered into that strange state where he could not be sure if he was dreaming or not. He thought of the salesman with the gray teeth, and pictured him picking cherries and putting them in a basket.

  He thought of Olivia’s old boyfriend, Giorgio, his face smeared with blood, his mouth gagged, but in the dream he was trying to tell David something urgent.

  He pictured a parade of knights on horseback, crossing the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, with Hitler himself leading the procession. Torches were lighted all along the way, and in the fiery glow David saw his sister, standing on the other side of the bridge. Why was she there? Her hair was still gone, and she was dressed in a blue hospital gown. She was watching the knights, a look of horror on her face, and David was trying to run to her. But the horses were in the way and though he kept shouting her name, she could not hear him. The horses and riders kept nudging her closer and closer to the edge of the bridge. She was about to fall off! David was pushing his way through the knights-Nazi pennants were flying from their lances-but he couldn’t make any progress. Someone, or something-a horse’s muzzle?-was nudging his arm… moving it, very gently, to one side.

  “Sarah,” he cried again, “Sarah.”

  And his arm was moved again.

  He opened one eye. A corner of the pillow stuck up in front of it. But something was stretching over him, reaching into that space between his body and the wall.

  He closed his eye, trying to get back to the bridge, trying to get back to his sister before she plummeted over the edge.

  But the knights on horseback still blocked the way.

  His arm was lifted, and once more he opened his eye. A tiny light, as bright and sharp as a pinprick, was focused on the wall. It reminded him of the light the optometrist used when testing his eyes.

  But now the light was directed elsewhere. It was pointed at something under his arm. Something black and firm and smooth as leather.

  The valise.

  His eye opened wider, and his whole body tensed.

  Thick fingers were groping for the handle, and suddenly David knew this was no dream. He could even hear the low breathing of the intruder.

  His own arm pressed down on the valise, while he swung himself up in the bed. His head hit the ceiling, and he kicked out a leg that collided with something. He heard a muffled oath, and he shoved the valise out of reach against the wall.

  He was suddenly as awake as he’d ever been, and in the dim confines of the cabin he could just make out a bald head and ice blue eyes. He kicked again, and this time his foot caught the man on the chin and sent him crashing backwards onto the floor.

  Olivia woke up, shouting his name, but David was already leaping down from the bunk and on top of his assailant. The man’s hands flew up against David’s chest, so powerfully that David was thrown back against the bed, and there was a cry from the cabin next door and the thump of some other passenger banging on the wall.

  “David!” Olivia screamed, “look out!” and that’s when he saw the glint of what looked like a knife.

  There was nowhere to run and nothing to protect himself with except his duffel. He grabbed the bag and held it to his chest. The first blow was absorbed by the thick canvas, and the blade got stuck in the fabric before it could be pulled loose.

  He pressed himself back against the window-railway lights flashing brightly through the glass-bracing himself for another attack when the door to the cabin was yanked open and a steward and a security guard barged in, throwing on the lights and shouting in Italian and French to stop right now! The guard, a burly guy wielding a baton, pushed the bald man away, and said, “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “He broke in!” Olivia cried.

  But the bald man, an agile and alert fighter a few seconds before, suddenly weaved on his feet and assumed an expression of drunken confusion.

  “Broke in?” he slurred. “This is my cabin. Who’re they?”

  “Who are any of you?” the guard said, demanding to see their passports and tickets.

  “He’s got a knife!” Olivia said.

  But the man shook his head and said, “What knife? I have a flashlight. I don’t see so well at night.” He held out a silver penlight, then dug around in his pockets to produce a train ticket.

  David, his breath only beginning to return to normal, felt a crushing weight in the back of his head, like the worst hangover he’d ever had. The schnapps hadn’t helped. It had a medicinal aftertaste he still couldn’t shake.

  The guard showed the steward the ticket, and the steward, after giving the man a long, hard stare, said, “You are in the next car.”

  “I am?” the bald man said, putting a hand against the baggage rack as if to steady himself. “Who says so?”

  He was doing a good imitation, David thought, of a bumptious drunk.

  “I say so,” the steward said, taking him by the arm and steering him out of the cabin. Dragging his feet, the man let himself be led away. “Those people are in my cabin!” he shouted from the corridor, and the steward said, “Keep your voice down, people are sleeping.”

  The security guard gave them back their passports and tickets and said, “He wouldn’t have gotten in if you’d locked your door properly.”

  David was about to retort that they had; but given the state he was in, he couldn’t be sure.

  The guard looked them both over, as if wondering why they were sleeping in their clothes, and in separate bunks, then shook his head, said, “ Buona notte,” and pulled the door firmly closed. Through the glass panel, he gestured for David to flip the inner lock and draw down the blind.

  David did both, before turning to Olivia, who wavered on her feet for a second before slumping on to the edge of the lower bunk. Holding her head down but pushing her hair back off of her face, she said, “This is not what I expected for tonight.” She looked down at her own clothes as if surprised that she was still in them.

  “I had something else in mind myself.”

  The rattling of the train was suddenly muffled as it hurtled through a tunnel in the French countryside.

  “So, what do you think?” Olivia said. “Just a thief, and not a very good one?”

  “Possibly,” David said. He had been pondering the very same question, as much as his aching head would allow him to, but from the look on Olivia’s face, she had come to the same conclusion he had. He double-checked the lock on the door and resolved to stay awake the rest of the way to Paris.

  Chapter 20

  In the winter of 1785, the frost lay on
the valley of the Loire like a wrinkled white sheet. The apple orchards were barren, the fields deserted, and the post road, such as it was, had become a twisted ribbon of ice and snow. Anxious as the passengers were to reach the Chateau Perdu before dark, there was only so much the driver of the carriage could do. If he urged the horses on too fast, they could slip on the ice and break a leg, or a wheel could catch in a rut and snap loose from its axle. That had happened once already, and it was only with the help of the two armed guards-one riding in front of the carriage and one behind-that they’d been able to mend it well enough to continue on their way at all.

  Charles Auguste Boehmer, official jeweler to the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, was beginning to regret having made the journey at all. Perhaps he and his partner, Paul Bassenge, reclining in the seat opposite, could have persuaded the queen to order the marquis to come to Versailles instead. It would have been so much easier, and, given the nature of what they were carrying, so much safer. But he knew that the Marquis di Sant’Angelo did only as he pleased, and it did not please him these days to come to Versailles. Boehmer suspected it was the presence at court of the infamous magician and mesmerist Count Cagliostro that was keeping him away. Boehmer had no use for the count, either, but so long as the man provided amusement to the queen and her retinue, he was sure to remain a fixture there.

  At a crossroads, the carriage ground to a halt, and Boehmer, throwing his scarf around his neck, stuck his head out the window. The withered carcass of a cow was lying in the middle of the road, and three peasants, wrapped in rags, were hacking away at it with an assortment of knives and hatchets. They looked up at the coach-and its mounted guards-with barely concealed hostility. The whole countryside was starving-the winter had been especially harsh-and Boehmer knew that the rage, which had been simmering in France for years, might boil over into an outright rebellion any day.

  He marveled that the king and queen were so blind to it.

  “ Pardonne, monsieur,” Boehmer said to the one in the red stocking cap, who had stood up with his hatchet in his hand, “but can you tell us which of these roads leads to the Chateau Perdu?”